


Late Bloomer

by somuchforbaggles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fledglings, Growing Up, M/M, Mates, POV Castiel, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1712000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somuchforbaggles/pseuds/somuchforbaggles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On every child’s seventh birthday, a celebration is held to mark the beginning of their journey as a fledgling - a sprouting ceremony. It doesn’t matter if the child hasn't shown the symptoms of emerging wings yet, for it is scientific fact that every child grows wings in their seventh year, sometimes even earlier.</p><p>Castiel is not every child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Bloomer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FollowingButterflies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FollowingButterflies/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Sam! :D Here's another birthday fic for the birthday girl: this time, featuring wings!
> 
> All shades of brown mentioned can be found [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Shades_of_brown).

On every child’s seventh birthday, a celebration was held to mark the beginning of their journey as a fledgling - a sprouting ceremony. Family members would gift the fledgling with oils and brushes for their new feathers, clothes with back slits for their wings, and handbooks for flying, wingcare, and various other things. It didn’t matter if the child had not shown signs of an itching back yet, for it was scientific fact that every child grew wings in their seventh year, sometimes even earlier.

Castiel was not every child.

His sprouting ceremony was a grand party that all his family attended, even the distant cousins, and the gifts they bestowed upon him were decadent and expensive, not to mention the amount of them. They were a little disappointed to learn that Castiel had not sprouted yet, and he felt their eyes on his back the entire day and night they visited.

A whole year passed, and Castiel still had not sprouted his wings. To add insult to injury, he couldn’t even feel the bones in his back shifting. His family’s good connections assured he wouldn’t be hounded by journalists and scientists, which was the only silver lining to the dark cloud over his head, but they couldn’t assure that he wouldn’t be hounded by his classmates on the playground.

Once, Castiel had an itch on his shoulder blade that he couldn’t quite reach, and he was so excited that he was finally sprouting that he immediately ran to his father to tell him.

“Oh Castiel,” his father had said with a sigh of disappointment. “It was just an itch.”

He turned nine, and with a heavy heart Castiel started to accept that he was devolving just like he heard his brothers whispering about. They wouldn’t let him touch their wings, not even groom them, in case they caught whatever he had and their wings fell off. Sometimes his mother would let him run his fingers through her sepia feathers, but not for long, as he tended to mess up his father’s hard work.

Enviously he watched as the fledglings next door grew up and celebrated 'flying the nest', the coming of age version of sprouting. Castiel wondered if he would ever be able to fly the nest if he never grew wings, or if it would be as celebrated if he just walked out of the nest, so to speak. A new family moved in next door after Mr and Mrs Milton downsized, their wings thick with feathers, he noted, and Castiel was the only child to go with his mother to welcome them to the neighbourhood.

“Mommy, why hasn’t he got any wings?” the youngest boy asked, tugging on his mother’s earth yellow feathers with one hand and pointing to Castiel with the other.

“Sam! We don’t ask questions like that,” his mother replied, shooting Mrs Novak an apologetic simper.

Castiel caught the elder brother staring at him curiously. He was no stranger to these kinds of looks, so challengingly stared right back until the boy’s cheeks dimpled, and he found himself matching the wide smile, too, if not a little nervously.

They were invited in for coffee and juice, though Castiel’s juice went forgotten as he was invited upstairs.

“I like your wings,” Castiel shyly said. Identical to the boy’s hair, they were ecru in their colour, like unbleached silk, but they shone like spun gold, and looked very soft. “Have you flown yet?”

The other children at school shunned him from their wingsports, and wouldn’t indulge him when he asked them questions about them. He didn’t like them much anyway. They would flick the side of his face with their feathers in class and only stop if he twisted them. Castiel wondered whether his new neighbour would be any different to the children at school.

The boy made a face, and the ends of his feathers twitched when his wings spread. The primary feathers nearly went past his wrists, so they were short, but their thickness more than made up for the length.

“Not really. I can only get a couple of inches off the floor, and only for a coupl’a seconds, then I feel like I need to take a nap. And that sucks, ‘cause Sammy takes naps and he’s five.”

“I wish I could fly,” Castiel pouted, drawing his knees up to his chest.

“How comes you can’t?”

Castiel shrugged. “My brothers said that I was the proof of devolution.”

“What's that," the boy asked, frowning, "like the opposite of evolution?”

“Yeah.”

The boy thought for a moment, and then jumped up to his feet and ran out of the room, wings held tightly to his back. Castiel sighed. It was only a matter of time before the novelty of having a wingless friend wore off, and before the boy thought that devolution was contagious. He got up from the floor and made for the door, but the boy crashed into him.

“Where are you going?” he asked quizzically. “Actually, doesn’t matter. My brother used ta love this book. He wouldn’t go sleep unless I read it to him, with the voices and everything. I think you should read it. You’re like the duck.”

A book was thrust into his chest, and Castiel was a little offended when he read the title. _The Ugly Duckling_ , it was called. He vaguely remembered reading it when he was younger, but had paid no mind to it. It was just a children's book.

"Thank you, I'll read it later," Castiel said. He hoped it contained some sort of metaphor or moral a toddler could not completely comprehend. But, he realised, in taking it home with him, did that mean that he was expected to bring it back, and see the boy again? Castiel smiled at the prospect.

“I’m Castiel,” he said, albeit a little excitedly.

“Cool name! I got named after my grandma.” The boy made a face again and Castiel laughed outright. He liked the faces he made. “I’m Dean.”

They hung out awhile longer, poring through the mythology books Dean owned when they discovered that they shared a love of them, and Dean even let Castiel touch his wings. They were as soft as they looked, and when Castiel peered closer, he found shades of camel and copper in them.

“Are you sure that this is okay?” he asked. “I’m not from your nest, and we aren’t mates, so -”

“Shut up, Cas. It feels nice. Keep doing it. And when you sprout, I’ll play with your wings, too. Promise.”

Castiel smiled again at the nickname and scrunched the feathers around Dean’s right winglet. Dean squirmed, and the next thing Castiel knew, he was in a tickle fight.

Breathless and boneless, but still grinning widely in their weakness, they laid on the floor until Dean’s mom came up to see what all the noise was about. Apparently, she thought that a couple of elephants had escaped from the zoo, which the boys both giggled at.

Sadly for the both of them, it was time for Castiel to go home. He clutched the book Dean had loaned him to his chest and dragged his feet all the way home, which really wasn’t very far at all, but as he did so, Castiel decided that Dean was his very best friend, and that was how it was going to be for the rest of his life.

****

If Castiel was interpreting the book correctly, then Dean was saying that he was a swan in a duck's world. He understood the sentiment, but doubted his chances at becoming a swan, and everyone fawning over him because of his sudden transformation. Castiel wouldn't want them to, anyway. Though he would forgive them if ever he sprouted, he reserved the right to be 'sniffy', as his mother would call it.

He reread _The Ugly Duckling_ dozens of times that weekend, and was mercilessly teased for it by his brothers. 'The Ugly Fledgling', they took to calling him, and during a particularly rough game of Piggy in the Middle featuring Castiel as Piggy and the book as the ball, it was ripped in two, the binding torn and the pages as crumpled as Castiel's feelings.

Castiel was almost inconsolable. His brothers were scolded and punished individually, and although neither of them dominated the house anymore, he didn't want to be in it.

He ended up on the Winchesters' porch, cradling cardboard and creased glossy paper, and was ushered in by pale wings. The fluffy feathers tickled the back of Castiel's neck, but he could not bring himself to even smile.

"I'm sorry about Sam's book, Mrs Winchester," he sniffled, not meeting her eyes. It was his loss, for if he had so much as glanced in them, he would have seen that they were kind, the way only mother's eyes were.

"Don't you worry about it. I'm sure it wasn't your fault, honey." She stroked his hair reassuringly and gently tipped his head up to prompt he look at her. "Why don't you go upstairs and see Dean? I know he'll be excited to see you."

Castiel managed the tiniest of smiles, and nodded. "Thank you," he mumbled, and she ruffled his hair before taking the mangled book out of his hands and patting him encouragingly on the back.

He was greeted by Dean with a beam, but upon seeing the tear tracks down Castiel’s cheeks, it turned into a concerned frown.

“What’s up?” worried Dean, ushering Castiel into his room with his wings, much like his mother had done.

“My brothers tore the book you loaned me.” Castiel’s mouth had a distinct downturn to it, and he avoided Dean’s gaze as he said in a small voice, “I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore, I can just go, and -”

Castiel stopped talking as he was firmly pulled into a warm hug. Dean’s wings wrapped around his back, and belatedly realising that Castiel’s hands were still hanging at his side, Dean maneuvered them into his wings.  

“My mom does this whenever I’m sad for whatever reason,” Dean said into Castiel’s ear.

Burying his small fists in Dean’s feathers, Castiel rested his head on his friend’s shoulder and sighed contentedly. His mother would hug him like this too, but only rarely was he allowed to card his fingers through her wings.

Dean hugged him tighter and let out a stream of air through his nose, almost making Castiel jump at the sudden tickle to his ear. His back was rubbed by way of an apology, and poked when Dean added:

“Oh, and o’course I still wanna be friends, Cas. You’re awesome.”

Castiel’s stomach did a flip at that. “Thank you,” he smiled, ruffling Dean’s feathers and eliciting a shudder.

Tiny footsteps padded into the room, and a proportionately tiny body threw itself into the hug. Castiel turned his head in confusion and saw Dean’s little brother, looking happy as a clam as he nestled between them and stroked his brother’s wings with his pudgy fingers.

“Hey Sammy, you okay there?”

“Dean hugs are the best hugs!” Sam near shouted in both their ears.

Dean chuckled. “Don’t let mom hear you say that.”

"Mom hugs are the best hugs too!”

“Sam doesn’t know what best means yet,” Castiel heard in an amused whisper. He hadn’t received a hug from Mrs Winchester, but he was absolutely sure that Sam’s first statement was the correct one.

Pulling away as Sam was close to accidentally forcing them apart, Castiel watched while he climbed all over Dean, and laughed at Dean’s fond-but-slightly-irritated face when Sam tugged at his feathers. They play-wrestled for a couple of minutes, Sam giggling the entire time, and when his short legs ran him out of the bedroom to nap, Dean breathlessly grinned at Castiel before looking slightly sheepish.

“Uhh…” he started, itching the back of his head, “are my wings a mess?”

Castiel nodded as he surveyed them. They had molted around the room from the play fighting, which Castiel knew Mrs Winchester wouldn’t approve of if his own mothers usual reaction to feathers on the floor was anything to go by, and Dean’s feathers were sticking up in all directions, some clumped together from where Sam had squeezed them.

“I could groom them for you.”

The words passed Castiel’s lips before they had even filtered through his brain, and immediately his face went pink at his own forwardness. He opened his mouth to take it back, but Dean blushed too, and nodded.

“I’d like that,” said Dean, his pink flush travelling to his neck and to what Castiel could see of his chest.

Embarrassed but excited, as Castiel read from his agitatedly fluttering wings, Dean shut the door, fetched his oils and brushes, and then sat cross-legged on the floor with his back to Castiel.

Although anxious about his lack of experience, Castiel roughly knew what he was doing as he’d seen wing grooming at home (practised some, too) and on TV, and as soon as he rubbed the jasmine-scented oil through his fingers and palms, all remaining nerves dissipated. He took his time in spreading the oil through Dean’s feathers, and worked gently but thoroughly. Castiel was firm, too, as Dean’s wings were stubborn - most likely because Dean was too; wings often displayed personality traits.

Dean hummed happily as Castiel worked through his wings, and when he was done, he rewarded his new best friend with a slice of pie he’d snuck up to his room. Castiel insisted on sharing it, and the bright smile Dean gave him while they ate was enough for him to forget that his cheeks had ever been stained with anything but pie filling.

Little Sam’s little wings sprouted just before his ceremony, and Castiel couldn’t help but be a little jealous. His were still nowhere to be seen at the age of eleven, but Sam’s russet wings popped out mere weeks before his seventh birthday. It wasn’t fair.

He was sulking in his room when his mother called up the stairs, “Castiel! You have a visitor!”

Trundling down the stairs expecting to see Dean back from his afternoon flight, Castiel was certainly surprised to see the other Winchester brother, covered in glitter.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel greeted, a touch confused. Mrs Winchester was nowhere to be seen.

Sam held out a piece of card, and it rained glitter on the welcome mat. “This is for you! I made it in my best handwriting. It’s an invitation!”

Castiel humoured him and plucked the card out of Sam’s sticky hands.

“It’s for my sprouting ceremony,” Sam said earnestly before Castiel could try and decipher the elaborate, glittery, swirly words he had written, no doubt with his tongue poking out as he concentrated. “I know it’s only meant ta be for family, but you’re like my second brother.”

 _Oh._ A second brother. That threw Castiel for a loop. He knew that Sam idolised him and Dean, but had no idea of the extent it went to.

"Please come, Cas, please please _pleeeease?_ " he pleaded, hands together as though in prayer, and words jogged and jumpy because of the desperate bouncing he was doing.

The boy’s eyes were now shining, his lower lip threatening to tremble, and Castiel had no idea why he would ever decline such a sweet invitation, so he smile and said a simple, "Alright."

Sam beamed and threw himself at Castiel's middle to envelop him in a hug.

"Thank you thank you thank you! You're the best!" he yelled into Castiel's shirt. Tucking his chin in Castiel's navel, he said sincerely, "I hope you can be my real brother some day," and then turned and ran back to his house.

Castiel watched Sam's excited wings twitching as he ran, and wondered how he could ever be jealous of such a kind hearted boy. It wasn't his fault that Castiel's feathers had yet to emerge.

Something cast a shadow across his face, and Castiel frowned as he glanced upwards.

"Oncoming!" he heard, and the next thing he saw was the ceiling, as well as his best friend's grinning face.

"Oof," was the only thing Castiel could say, being fairly severely winded and all, but Dean just laughed as he usually did, and stayed pinning Castiel down.

"You coming to Sammy's sprouting ceremony?" Dean asked, making himself comfortable on Castiel's front.

Castiel threaded a hand through the feathers on Dean's right wing and nodded. "I'm not sure what to give him, though."

"He'll be cool with anything you give him. You're like, his hero."

"No, _you're_ his hero. Even if your feathers are in disarray."

Dean snorted and smirked. "Wanna groom ‘em?"

Castiel didn't think he had ever, or would ever turn down that offer, even at the tender age of eleven. Said offer of grooming Dean's enviable wings had been standing for two years, and was one that Castiel hoped would continue for as long as they were best friends. Well, until they found their mates, of course.

He stroked Dean's winglets fondly and pushed him off with a great heave. The one thing that Castiel begrudged wings was that they were so _heavy._ He really didn't know how the whole world coped with the weight of them, especially when it rained unexpectedly.

Castiel started for the front door, so they could groom Dean’s wings with Dean’s oils and brushes, but Dean grabbed Castiel’s arm and pouted.

“Can’t you groom them with your stuff? Yours is way nicer than mine,” he said, a tiny whine in his voice.

Rolling his eyes, Castiel grunted his assent and pulled Dean up the stairs, but in all honesty, he loved it when they groomed Dean’s wings in his room. There was something about the smell of the oils intended for him all over his best friend’s feathers that was superlatively satisfying, as well as the knowledge that Dean didn’t let his mother groom them for him anymore. The fact that Castiel’s deft fingers were the only fingers to primp those soft feathers was a deeply appeasing one.

Dean sat patiently on the elaborately decorated grooming stool that Castiel received at his sprouting ceremony, his wings hovering, ready and waiting to be primped. Straddling the other seat attached specifically for the groomer, Castiel readied his tools at the side of him, and began by finger-combing his friend’s feathers and picking out bits of debris from Dean’s earlier flight.

Then came the big brush, then the fine brush, and then the oils to clean, shape, and refine. That was the way Castiel’s mother taught him, anyway. Dean sometimes thought it went on too long, and when he vocalised that, Castiel always mimicked his mother by flicking Dean’s feathers and telling him that ‘ _you can’t rush magnificent wings_ ’.

Mostly, Dean seemed to like the care Castiel took over his wings, occasionally saying that his wings were Castiel’s wings, too.

Castiel liked that very much.

Flying was exhilarating.

Technically, Castiel had a very limited perspective - whatever was over Dean’s shoulder, but everything about it was truly and utterly amazing. The wind that affectionately ruffled Castiel’s hair, the crisp air filling his lungs as well as the comforting smell of Dean’s neck, watching Dean’s wings as they flapped, and having those strong arms circling his waist; all of these were ingredients for the best feeling in the world. Castiel would tuck his feet behind Dean’s thighs, grip onto the backs of Dean’s shoulders, and off they would fly, swooping through valleys and over hills until everything was a blur of blue and green.

Somehow, when Castiel was up in the sky with his best friend, the way only his t-shirt flapped didn’t matter so much. There was only him and Dean and the whole world they had yet to explore. They were the only two people that existed, and Castiel never wanted to come back down to Earth.

But unfortunately, they had to, and Castiel had to literally come down from his high yet again to face the reality that he would only ever be able to stay in the sky if he were to sprout.

If it didn’t happen soon, he didn’t know what he would do. Puberty was awkward enough without being ground-bound, and the only support he found on the internet was from those who had their wings removed for health reasons, those who had lost use of their wings, or from those who had had their wings torn from their backs by something or someone. Castiel had yet to find someone like him, who had been born without, or someone who was or had been a late bloomer.

It was lonely, but Castiel felt a little less lonely when Dean shared his wings.

Three years later, and Castiel still had no use for the oils and brushes in his room. Not for himself, anyway, but Dean still liked to use them, so much so that all the bottles were nearly empty.

They sat on Castiel’s two-seated grooming stool, which was more difficult now that Castiel’s bony knees tended to knock into the bottom of Dean’s wings. The grooming routine had now been the same for seven years, and as far as the both of them knew, it was still done in secret. Their families didn’t know, their small group of friends didn’t know, even Sam didn’t know. It was a ritual that would be frowned upon if anyone knew, one that now they were older, could see the damage it could cause.

If either Castiel or Dean found their mates, the bond they had forged would be instantly sensed by the smell of it, and they could both be rendered mateless because of it. Castiel hated the _only nest or mate_ rule for grooming, and knew others did too. Wing Parlours were popular, but underground, and only spoken of in hushed, judgemental tones. And of course, there were Wing-Whores, or Wing-Bitches: those who indulged in filmed promiscuity and got off on the stimulation of their oil glands, feather-pulling, and heated grooming.

Castiel may have seen a fair few of those videos. It started out of curiosity, but it grew into something else, something bigger, something that pooled in the very pit of his stomach. He especially liked the videos in which the scenario started out with a simple grooming. Yes, those were his favourite. The couple always made it seem so intimate, which Castiel supposed it was, but they were adults, and the secretion of oil triggered the transition from simple to sexual.

He wondered what would happen when Dean’s oil came in.

However, he did not have to wonder for long.

Castiel started with the finger-combing, as usual, though when he found himself thinking about the videos, his hands drifted towards the innermost part of Dean’s wings - their protrusion from his back, and where his oils glands laid. Castiel ran his thumbs over where feather met skin, and unwittingly rubbed the bumps nearby.

Dean shuddered, and his feathers slowly puffed as a distracted Castiel accidentally re-enacted the scenes he’d grown so fascinated by. A strangled noise in the back of his throat startled the both of them when Castiel coaxed the oil out of his glands.

Castiel stared down at his hands then, the tips of his fingers slick with the oil Dean had secreted, and said nothing. This was everything he had fantasised about, and the only thing he knew to do came from a porno.

So that was what he did.

He stroked his fingers through Dean’s feathers, a less innocent mirror image of the way he usually did, and really dug into the bones of the ecru and copper wings. The feathers puffed more, and Dean moaned, and when Castiel flicked both his winglets at the same time he tensed momentarily and clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle a shout.

Slowly, Castiel came to the realisation that Dean had come in his pants from wingplay, and that it was his fault for not backing off the grooming stool the moment he saw his hands shining with Dean’s beautiful oil.

They were both ruined now.

Dean near leapt to his feet and spun around, horror striking his features, and a wet spot spreading over his crotch.

“Fuck, Cas...what was that?”

Castiel shook his head in dismay, disgust and arousal clouding his mind. “I...I don’t know.”

Panic widened Dean’s green eyes, and his wings fluttered and flustered as his feathers settled down, still sensitive by the looks of the heat on Dean’s cheeks. “You don’t know? You frickin’ molest me like a wing-bitch and _you don’t know_ is all you got?”

Reeling at the slur and the way his best friend just hissed at him, Cas’s mouth parted both in shock and with the words he couldn’t quite say.

Dean bristled and tucked his wings behind him, giving Castiel a final conflicted glare before he stormed out of the room, and out of the house. And for all Castiel knew, out of his life forever.

He couldn’t let that happen.

“Dean, wait!” he called desperately. “Please!”

But no matter how much he wanted to save his friendship with Dean, he could not find the energy to run after him.

Knuckles rapped on his door. “Castiel? Is everything alright?”

Castiel put his face in his hands, only to smear it with drying oil and tease his nose with the smell of _Dean Dean Dean._

“Castiel?”

“Mother,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve ruined everything.”

He had not been wrapped in his mother’s wings for a very long time, but they were just as comforting as he remembered. Warm, silky smooth, and with the slight smell of freshly baked bread. In his mother’s long wings Castiel felt a serenity he had only ever felt when he had Dean’s arms around him when they flew.

Castiel loved it when Dean took him flying, but as he was still wingless and his best friend had just walked out on him, he’d never fly again.

"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding, a - a lover's tiff, if you will. Heaven knows your father and I had enough of them," Mrs Novak soothed, petting her son's fluffy hair.

“A...a lover’s tiff?” Castiel repeated, bringing his face out from her feathers to frown.

His mother stared at him for a moment before smiling sadly.

“Oh, my sweet Castiel,” she said, cupping his cheeks and rubbing her thumbs over his cheekbones, her soft sepia toned eyes meeting his. “Dean is your mate.”

Castiel stilled. Dean Winchester, his best friend...his mate?

His mother looked troubled, now. "You didn't know?" she asked, her brow creasing.

The warm wings around Castiel stiffened, and he said a small, "No."

“And you’ve just been grooming his wings, even though neither of you realise that you reek of each other,” Mrs Novak said, disapproval dripping from her words. She sighed and shook her head. “What am I going to do with you, my little fledgling?”

Castiel turned despondent as she pulled him into her chest. That was exactly what he was, and what he would be for the foreseeable future - a fledgling, with no wings to speak of. How could he have a mate if he wasn’t even of the same species as Dean? Over nine years, Castiel thought that he had grown to accept that he just simply wasn’t a bird of the same feather when it came to everyone else. He was odd, he was flightless, he was no good to have for a mate.

If his mother was correct, and Dean was his true mate, then how would Dean feel about that? He already made his feelings perfectly clear when he walked away from the wing-bitch Castiel was. Who wanted a mate with no wings to groom? As far as Castiel knew, Dean loved wings. He was always mentioning the form or shape of the wings of the girls in their school, and always talked about the kind of feathers he preferred, soft and rounded and perfect for fisting in his hand. Castiel couldn’t offer Dean any of that. He could only offer empty bottles of expensive oils and heavy-handled brushes.  

He stayed in his mother’s embrace for as long as she allowed him to, which was until his father came in his room, patted him on the head, and gently said, “Dean will come around.”

Castiel hoped his father was right with everything he had, because being just a wing-bitch to his mate would quite possibly break his heart.

He was just settling down for a night of overthinking when his mother knocked lightly on his door.

“You have a visitor in the living room,” she yawned. “We’re going to bed now, so don’t be too loud, please. Goodnight, fledgling.”

“Goodnight, mother,” Castiel whispered back. _A visitor? At this time of night?_ He padded downstairs, and found a concerned twelve year old perched on the couch. “...Sam? What are you doing here?” He hoped it wasn’t to throw back the sprouting gift he’d gotten him all those years ago; that thick book on achieving the perfect wings would surely knock him out.

Sam glowered, his wings perfectly still. Uh-oh, Castiel thought, preparing himself for the fiery wrath of Sam Winchester.

“I’m mad at Dean,” he said plainly, and Castiel let out a breath of relief before guilt took its place.

“If you should be mad at anyone, it’s me.”

“What are you talking about? Dean told me what he called you, and he - he had no right to do that. It’s as bad as when Draco called Hermione a mudblood!”

Castiel gave a weak smile, remembering their book and movie marathon. “There’s a difference between that and what Dean called me, but thank you.”

“It’s not that different,” protested Sam. “Hermione was born into a muggle family, and you were born to love his wings.”

“You...you know that Dean and I are mates?”

Rolling his eyes, Sam groaned, flicked the feathers on his digits out, and said, “Everyone in a hundred mile radius knows you guys are mates! Like, even the smell of you, man. You don’t have any feathers, but he is _all_ over you. And you’re all over him. You think mom didn’t notice that no one in our nest was grooming his wings? Or that I didn’t notice when he started taking you on flights and coming back like he was Aladdin and you were his Jasmine and like you’d just taken a magic carpet ride around the whole world?”

There was no reply for that. Thoughts flew around Castiel’s head like winged keys, but he didn’t have the ability to reach the correct one to open the door. And that was the problem.

“But I don’t have any wings.”

“You think Dean cares about that? He just wants _you_ , Cas, even if he doesn’t really see it yet. He’ll come around, and when he does, the first thing he’s gonna do is apologise.” Sam stepped forward and laid a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, a wing curling around the side of him. “I’d say you deserve better than someone who called you a wing-bitch, but...you and Dean kinda deserve each other. Plus, I kinda want you as a brother for real, so.”

Castiel was almost speechless. Almost.

“Thank you,” he said genuinely and warmly, a tiny smile playing on his lips when Sam’s wings softly shunted him into a hug.

Patting Castiel on the back, Sam drew back and tapped him on the cheek. “It’ll work out, Cas, I promise.”

Castiel nodded, believing it slightly more because it was Sam who assured it, and stood on the porch to make sure he made it home alright. It was only a couple hundred yards, and they lived in a nice neighbourhood, but as Sam’s second brother, it was Castiel’s duty to look out for him.

It was the duty he was allowed to do, unlike his duty to love and care for Dean and his wings.

It was the week before Castiel turned seventeen, and things had not worked out like Sam had said they would. Sure, Dean appeared on his porch the day after the incident, shuffling his feet and apologising for the harshness of his words, but it wasn’t the same. Dean had made it very clear that grooming his wings was no longer an option, and the only time they saw each other was on the way to school or in class.

Castiel missed his best friend more than the wings he never had.

To make matters worse, Dean had been dating more than usual. Castiel couldn’t help the flare of possessiveness in his chest; after all, Dean was _his_ mate, and shouldn’t be letting anyone but Castiel near his wings. Hurt spread through his torso and burned his heart, and everything ached whenever he saw Dean. Being uncomfortable became the norm, and Castiel feared that if he tried to change that, he would lose Dean more than he already had.

On his birthday, the pain reached an all time high when Dean didn't show up with presents and pie. Instead, a groggy Sam arrived on his own with gifts and cake ( _"Close enough, right?"_ ), and as much as Castiel loved Sam, he just wasn't close enough to being Dean.

During Homeroom, a pen poked Castiel's back, and he tensed as he swivelled around to face the culprit.

It was Dean, which Castiel knew already, having been poked in that exact spot from that exact angle more times than he could count.

"Happy birthday, man," he whispered, looking almost guilty.

Castiel haughtily turned back to face the front. The small prick of the pen radiated pain through the rest of his back, shooting up through his spine, and he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

If being separated from one's mate was so painful, Castiel could see why people mourned for years after the loss of them. He never understood it before, but now, knowing he'd probably never touch Dean and his feathers again, Castiel accepted that he would be in mourning for the rest of his life.

His shoes squeaked down the corridor, and Castiel winced as another wave of pain hit him. He leaned on a row of lockers to catch his breath, and moaned when the cool metal soothed a little of his discomfort.

"Cas?" he heard a low voice call.

"Not now, Dean," panted Castiel. Scrunching up his face and doubling over, he dry heaved and clutched his stomach, hoping that would be enough to hold its contents.

A breeze ruffled his hair, and Castiel felt momentarily cured when a hand rested on his shoulder.

"Jesus, Cas, are you okay?"

"I...I - No, I think I'm going to -"

And then, Castiel felt as though his very bones were being ripped out by incorporeal hands, and he promptly passed out.

Castiel woke up with his nose smushed into a familiar-smelling pillow - his own, he identified when he slid his hand under it to feel the bee print notebook Dean had given him a year ago. A heavy weight rested on his back, and when Castiel failed in his attempt to move, a hand shot out to stay him.

“Relax, Cas, don’t try to move.”

Castiel scowled at hearing his mate’s voice, and managed to turn his head enough to look around.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, mouth curling as though the question was a sour lemon.

Under his breath, Dean muttered, “Making waffles, what do you think?" before he sighed. "I flew you here after you collapsed and...and, uh, etcetera. I’m makin’ sure you’re okay,” Dean said softly, his hand still on Castiel’s waist.

“I’m fine, I just passed out. You can leave.” Castiel pointedly planted his woozy head face down on the pillow again, and with all his might willed Dean away.

Unfazed, Dean mulled for a few moments, something unsaid on his lips and a curious glint in his green eyes. Then, he slid his hand up Castiel’s spine, and ran his fingers over -

Over Castiel’s wings.

They fluttered to life above his back, slightly larger and longer than the size of a sprouting fledgling’s wings, and through the strain Castiel smiled widely, relief flooding his veins and coursing through his wings.

“You finally sprouted, buddy,” whispered Dean, his grinning lips matching Castiel’s and closer than he originally noticed.

“Ten years late, but yes. I sprouted.” Laughter bubbled up within him, and Dean laughed with him, his wings spreading joyously. Finally, he could say those words. _I sprouted_. Castiel wanted to call his brothers up and ask who the lone evidence of devolution was now, and he wanted to laugh again and sing and cry and fly and try everything at once.

But first, Castiel needed to see them. He needed to know their shape, their colour, the thickness of their feathers. He attempted to roll out of bed, but again, strong hands stopped him.

"Woah, hey now. Rest. They’re growing like weeds, and super sensitive right now. You should rest, really.” Dean’s hands moved to Castiel’s wings and hair while he spoke, and he held Castiel’s gaze the entire time - perhaps to reassure him, perhaps to make up for the glances he missed. “Oh,” he added, “and some of your feathers broke and bent from getting caught in your shirt, so I gave 'em a quick groom. I hope that was okay."

The feel of Dean’s fingers in his feathers was overwhelming now, Castiel couldn’t imagine the pained (or otherwise) noises he made while unconscious.

"You groomed my wings?"

"I promised I would, remember?"

Castiel remembered. The first time they had met, Dean promised that. All through the sessions in which Castiel groomed Dean’s wings, he promised then, too. Though Dean loved pie, his promises were not as easily broken as their crusts, and Castiel hoped that held true.

But still, he ached to know his wings past their weight.

"I need to see them," Castiel said, firmly yet pleadingly, whereas Dean was just firm in his reply.

"No, you need to rest."

" _No_ ," Castiel strained as he pushed himself up on weak arms. "I need to - I've waited this long..."

"Okay, okay buddy, let's get you up." Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel's stomach and lifted him up, sturdying him when he stood on his Bambi legs.

"Dean, the mirror -"

"I know, I'm getting you there."

And then the mirror was _right there_ , and Castiel couldn’t find it in him to so much as glance at his own reflection.

He stayed in Dean’s hold, struggling to stay up as the unfamiliar pull of his wings dragged him down, and it took everything - including Dean’s wings shooting out behind his back for balance - to keep his body from crumpling in a weak pile of feathers. The press of Dean’s front against Castiel’s put a pinch in his cheeks, and when he found his feet, Dean’s hand moved to block the threat of his friend’s head lolling. Castiel was still light-headed and drowsy from the dull ache that throbbed through his body, and he needed all the help he could get.

Looking through his lashes at Dean and leaning into the palm cupping his jaw, Castiel shyly asked, “What do they look like?”

Dean’s eyes didn’t stray from Castiel’s as his lips formed the word, "Beautiful."

"Really?"

"Yeah. 'Cause, I mean, the wings are meant to reflect the person, right?"

Dopily beaming, Castiel headbutted his mate’s collar bone and smelled the rich, leathery scent he’d missed so much. A pat between his shoulder blades jolted him into the world outside of Dean. Of course, Dean didn’t help by sliding his palms down to rest on Castiel’s hips and slowly swivelling them to face the mirror.

Castiel took a long blink, and didn’t open his inquisitive eyes until a voice murmured in his ear:

“Come on, open those baby blues. You’ve only been waiting your whole life to turn into a swan.”  

He swallowed, unscrunched his lids, and felt his eyelashes flickering beneath his brow bone in wide-eyed shock.

They were beautiful, just like Dean said they were. Castiel’s feathers were soot brown, a bistre colour, like burned beechwood, and the highlights - no, lowlights - that streaked through them were a glossy black. The feathers were sharp and tapered like an eagle’s, for ease of flight, and it struck Castiel that he and Dean would be able to fly separately from each other very soon. He hoped they still flew together, though: side by side, above and below, or maybe on each others’ sixes and twelves. Castiel certainly wouldn’t mind being on Dean’s six. In any case, the telling bend in his wings predicted that they would be long, and had the potential to glide for miles once they were fully grown.

Nimble digits carded through his feathers, and Castiel tipped his head back onto Dean’s shoulder at the frankly intense stimulation. Knuckles and fingertips massaged the aches in his new muscles, and Castiel’s breathing became ragged as Dean worked through to the very ends of each dark feather.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said quietly into Castiel’s neck, just running his hands through the satin wings. “I’m sorry for avoiding you, I’m sorry for not getting you birthday pie, I’m sorry I got mean when I got scared. For what it’s worth, I think we’re each other’s wing-bitches.”

Though Castiel loved the sparks of pleasure each touch was creating, he had to look at Dean. To find his eyes, to caress his cheeks, and let him know all was forgiven.

He shifted his wings and tried to draw them in with as much finesse as he could muster, and spun in Dean’s open arms. Reverently, Castiel skimmed his hands over blond hair and patchy stubbled cheeks, and gave away a hint of a smile.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is _mates_ ,” he corrected, searching Dean’s eyes for the affirmation he sought.

Slowly, Dean nodded, realisation dawning on his features.

“Mates…alright. Mates. You’re my mate.” He said the last part as though he couldn’t quite believe he hadn’t thought of it before, the metaphorical lightbulb over his head as bright as his soul.

There was the affirmation.

“Mate,” Castiel whispered once more, edging further towards Dean.

“ _Mate_ ,” Dean breathed against his lips before they met.

Copper and ecru wings curled around the two mingled bodies to properly greet black and bistre wings, and to dance with the feathers they had been waiting for for eight long years.

Better late than never, after all, and Castiel’s wings were well worth the wait.

 


End file.
